The Billionaire's Christmas Gift

Of course. Obvious, once she thought about it. If she’d thought about it. Which Beth hadn’t.

She was surprised she could still function at all when she felt so numbed from walking to work in the icy rain and sleet for the past fifteen minutes!

Beth repressed a shiver as she pushed the wet hood of her coat back off her hair. ‘I really am okay, you know. Wet and cold, obviously, and my dignity is certainly bruised. But otherwise I’m unharmed.’

‘I doubt it’s only your dignity that’s bruised …’ her reluctant rescuer drawled wryly.

Beth turned to give him a frown; was this man—now that he was assured of her well-being—actually laughing at her?

Nick could see exactly how wet and cold the woman beside him was now that the hood of her coat no longer hid her face; her teeth were chattering and her cheeks had taken on a slightly blue tinge. ‘I’ll drive you home so that you can take a hot shower and change into some dry clothes,’ he offered briskly.

‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ the woman refused primly. ‘I’m going to be late for work as it is—’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Nick muttered, knowing there was no way that he was going to make his nine-thirty appointment now. ‘But you can’t possibly go into work like that—’

‘Of course I can,’ she dismissed as she pulled the hood back over her hair—only to give a grimace at its uncomfortable dampness. ‘I have some dry things I can change into once I get into school.’

‘You work at St James’s …?’ Nick eyed her sharply as he reassessed her appearance.

She was young, probably in her early to mid-twenties, and wore little or no make-up. Small gold studs in pierced earlobes. The clothes he could see—blue duffle coat, black trousers, black boots—looked serviceable rather than fashionable or designer label. Her gloveless hands were long and slender, the nails kept short, the fingers completely bare of rings.

Probably one of the catering staff. Or perhaps she helped out in the classroom, Nick decided. If it was the former she no doubt had a kitchen uniform she could change into while her own clothes were drying on a radiator somewhere.

‘It’s your call.’ He nodded abruptly, checking there was no traffic behind him before pulling out to drive back down to the entrance to the main school building.

This whole incident could have been so much worse, Nick acknowledged gratefully. He had been too distracted by the memory of that earlier unsatisfactory conversation with Bekka to even notice this woman stepping off the pavement in front of his car. Until he’d heard that telling thump, that was.

He glanced at the woman beside him briefly. ‘I’ll give you my business card—just in case you suffer any ill-effects from the accident later on today and need to contact me.’

Beth eyed the man beside her uncertainly, eyeing the expensive cut of his suit and the gold watch on his wrist bearing a discreet but very distinctive crest. The air of wealth made her wonder if he was a parent of one of the pupils at the school. She liked her job at St James’s. Enjoyed working at the private school for girls more than she would ever have believed possible when she had reluctantly accepted the position almost a year ago.

Having grown up as an only child of loving parents in a small village in the east of England, and having been educated at that same village school, Beth’s experience of private schools had been nil when she’d decided to make this move to London just over a year ago.

At the time Beth had thought she needed to get away—that after all that had happened a complete change of scenery was called for. She just hadn’t realised how completely different London was going to be from the village life she had known.

Her previous job had been at a large mixed middle school in the town nearest to her village home. It was attended by almost one thousand pupils, and she had been pleasantly surprised to find that she enjoyed the intimacy of working in a school with only three hundred girls.

The only drawback Beth had found was that parents tended to be more involved in a fee-paying school, and that the school and its staff were answerable directly to the governors, who were in turn answerable to those parents.

If the man sitting beside her, in his top-of-the-range Mercedes, really was the wealthy parent of one of the girls attending St James’s, then Beth knew she was going to have to tread carefully. ‘I really am completely unharmed, you know,’ she reassured him lightly. ‘If anything was to blame for the accident then it was my own carelessness in stepping out into the road in that way without looking!’

This woman really was quite beautiful now that she was drying out a little, Nick realised abstractedly. The blue of her eyes was a deep clear periwinkle, and she had a light dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose, along with a slight flush in her creamy cheeks.

What colour would that dark auburn hair be once it was dry? he wondered. Red, of course. But would it be a bright carrot-red or—?

He was finally going quietly out of his mind …!

Ten months of trying to be both father and mother to Bekka, as well as juggling the demands of his extensive business interests to fit in with that dual role, must finally be taking their toll on him if he was starting to think the dripping wet waif and stray now sitting in his car—probably ruining his upholstery in the process—was in the least attractive!

He straightened abruptly to take his wallet out of the breast pocket of his damp jacket; unlike the woman beside him, Nick would have to go home and change into some dry clothes before going to his office. ‘Here.’ He pushed his business card into the woman’s hand. ‘I expect you to call me if you have any repercussions from your fall,’ he explained impatiently, as, instead of taking the card, the woman looked at him, questioning.

Beth gave the man at her side one last inquisitive look before glancing down at the card he had thrust into her hand, frowning as she read the words embossed in gold in the centre of that card: ‘Nicholas Steele, Steele Industries’, and both a landline and mobile number printed beneath.

Nicholas Steele.

CHAPTER TWO

BETH knew the name Nicholas Steele, of course. Didn’t everyone? The man probably owned or had developed half of London, and he had even merited special mention by Miss Sheffield when Beth attended her initial interview. The headmistress at St James’s explained that the daughter of Nicholas Steele was a pupil at the school, and that, ‘Mr Steele is on the board of governors and also our most influential parent.’ For ‘influential’ Beth had known she should read wealthy!

This man was Nicholas Steele?

Rebekka Steele’s father?

Incredible!

Rebekka was such a lovely little girl, very warm and open, whereas this man—Well, he might still be as gorgeous as sin, but the last few minutes had also shown Beth that he could be arrogant, and there was a definite edge of ruthlessness to those sculptured lips.

‘There won’t be any repercussions,’ Beth declared firmly as she carefully placed the card on top of the dashboard before turning to open the passenger door.

Nicholas Steele’s hand on her arm prevented her from actually getting out of the car.

Beth turned to look at him irritably. ‘Yes?’

The perplexed frown between his brows deepened to a scowl before he slowly released her arm. ‘If you’re sure you’re okay …?’ he muttered gruffly.

She gave an abrupt nod before scrambling quickly out of the car, slamming the door behind her and hurrying into the school building.

‘The bell rang for the start of lessons some time ago, Mrs Morgan.’ Miss Sheffield’s voice rang out disapprovingly across the cavernous hallway.

Beth turned reluctantly to face the middle-aged headmistress. ‘It really is an awful morning, isn’t it?’

The other woman’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m pleased to say that all of my other members of staff seemed to take that fact into account by leaving home earlier than usual to ensure that they arrived on time!’

Maybe so, but then none of Miss Sheffield’s other members of staff had been delayed because they’d been knocked down by the school’s ‘most influential’ parent!

‘Am I speaking to Mrs Morgan?’ Nick prompted tersely when his telephone call was finally answered.

The two days since Bekka’s initial request for her biology teacher to be invited to their home on Christmas Day—correction, on Bekka’s birthday, which just happened to be Christmas Day!—had been decidedly uncomfortable ones for Nick, as his daughter had brought the subject up every time the two of them were together. Initially wheedling and cajoling, Bekka had soon become whining and tearful as Nick had steadfastly refused to give in to her pleas.

The frosty drive in to school this morning, the last day of term, had been the final straw as far as Nick was concerned. To the extent that Nick had eventually decided to at least telephone the woman; with any luck the widowed Mrs Morgan would have the good sense to refuse the invitation!

Whatever the outcome of this telephone call, Nick knew his Christmas was already shot to hell. Forced into being polite on Christmas Day to some old lady he didn’t know—and didn’t want to know, either!—if the woman accepted. Or given the silent treatment by his daughter if this Mrs Morgan turned down the invitation—because Nick had absolutely no doubt who Bekka was going to blame if her teacher refused to join them!

Wasn’t eight a little young for his daughter to be entering the terrible teens? Or perhaps Bekka was more like Janet, her petulant mother, than he had previously realised.

‘Speaking,’ Mrs Morgan suddenly confirmed gruffly.

And slightly familiarly, Nick recognised with a frown. Had he met Bekka’s biology teacher before? Perhaps during one of the numerous school events he had been expected to attend since becoming a governor of the school two years ago?